(diaryland) November 21, 2000 - 13:00:40

Last night, I watched a show on the telly that had a lot of stuff about ghosts. Then I went to bed and felt despair. I hate that. I've seen two different film versions of Madame Bovary recently and I thought about that too. Despair, despair, despair.

A few years ago, I used to feel a different kind of despair. I used to hope some dude would come and steal my brain. Just come in through the window at night, crack my head open, and steal my brain. But he never came, so one day I decided to get fancy and end my life myself. But I decided I was too tired, and that night I told my parents I felt despair. Despair, despair, despair. Clare was in despair. Clare, the chair, the big fat pear. So I ended up speaking to a moustachioed man every week until I decided he really wasn't helping. And that was that.

But this despair is a different kind. It's the kind I used to feel when I was small. The one when I think a lot about how I don't particularly want to die. Being dead is OK. It just looks difficult to do. I keep thinking of Madame Bovary all green and spewing and trying to breathe. It just looks so hard to do. I'm not up for that sort of thing.

So, in a way, it's a good kind of despair. As opposed to the bad kind. Wah. I'm saying stuff that sucks. Yes, I'm ANGSTY.